


a dance around the flames

by volantium



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Romance, Brief Mention of Alcoholism, Implied Cheating, Implied Female Trevelyan/Sera, Implied Male Hawke/Fenris, Lyrium Withdrawal, Multi, Past Cullen Rutherford/Female Amell - Freeform, Past Cullen Rutherford/Male Hawke, Slow Burn, me: inquisition needs more gay pining, mentioned Dorian Pavus/Iron Bull, no one:, technically a cullen character study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:53:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22924426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/volantium/pseuds/volantium
Summary: "Cullen, please," Dorian says, voice low, and Cullen flashes back to a war tent at the edge of Adamant Fortress and a sprawling map and his heart beating a cacophony against his rib cage at Dorian's broken rasp. "This is agonising."The world tilts on its axis, shattering as Cullen closes the distance between them, realigning at the first tentative kiss he presses to Dorian's lips.A retelling of Inquisition through the eyes of a stoic solider and stolen moments with a mercurial mage.
Relationships: Dorian Pavus/Cullen Rutherford
Comments: 13
Kudos: 72





	a dance around the flames

**I.  
**_Of all days_ , Cullen thinks, _it has to be the one we finally close the Breach._

The force trekking through the mountains edges closer to the cliff face.

They reach the gate in a rush, Cullen foolishly behind the Herald instead of in front. He’s the Commander; he should be protecting her from whatever just _knocked_ on the gates. Two Inquisition soldiers run forward to open Haven’s massive front doors.

The man on the other side is leaning against a stave, one knee on the floor and panting heavily. Something posses him to run forward and help the man up. The first touch between them zaps like sparking electricity. It tingles up Cullen’s arm like nothing he’s felt before. He realises with a start that the man’s stave is actually a mage’s staff - and there's something to be said about an ex-Templar not instantly recognising a mage. Then the man speaks, and Cullen’s stomach _curls_.

“Dorian Pavus, most recently of Minrathous.” His - _Dorian’s_ \- deep, lilting voice washes over him in cadence. “Fashionably late, I’m afraid.”

Cullen isn’t an innocent fool, despite popular belief. He know’s he’s in for a world of trouble the moment Dorian opens his mouth.

Dorian explains that it’s a force of Venatori - Tevinter extremists - marching on Haven. Powerful, unchecked, rebellious mages led by a woman by the name of Calpurnia. Dorian calls the _thing_ beside her the Elder One, and a shiver chases its way down Cullen’s spine. His gaze tracks from it to Dorian’s. The man is clearly sincere in his warning, however late it may be. There’s something lurking in his eyes, a wariness that Cullen is intimately familiar with.

“Cullen, give me something - anything!”

Cullen’s eyes tear away from the grey, almost arctic colour of Dorian’s to face the Herald, “Haven is no fortress. If we’re to survive this, we _must_ control the battle.”

Cullen turns, barking off orders and a haphazard pep talk. His sword sings as it’s drawn from the sheath.

His soldiers break off, all running in different directions as Venatori invade Haven. He rushes back into the town proper. The Herald is more than capable of defending Haven, spying her and her entourage running towards the northern trebuchet.

Seconds, minutes, hours pass in battle haze. Venatori fall on his sword and the lyrium Cullen can still feel is a faint call underneath it all.

A deafening screech rents the air. Cullen almost drops his sword at the noise. Overhead flies a dragon. It reminds Cullen too much of the darkspawn, looks almost like it is one rather than an actual dragon. Dread courses through him. His veins to ice as anxiety coils in his gut, overpowering any other feeling he has. He’s distantly aware that he yells something about finding shelter in the Chantry, soldier hindbrain working full force. His feet pound the earth as he runs. They reach the Chantry in one piece, barely, the Herald the last to enter.

Chancellor Roderick leans heavily against Dorian, the Herald a buzz, and Cullen’s head spins with a thousand possible outcomes.

He falls into the easy familiarity of reporting, even though the words pain him. Any chance the trebuchets gave them are gone. For all his training, Cullen can barely think of anything that could get them out of this alive.

“From what I gathered in Redcliffe,” Dorian is saying, “it marched all of this way to take your Herald.”

Cullen turns to the Herald, her face impassive. If there is one thing he’s learned about Aeryn Trevelyan, in their scant few days of acquaintance, is that she’s a brick wall in the face of adversity. Commendable to a fault.

“I’d give myself to save Haven,” she says, and to the side Sera makes a disapproving noise.

Dorian chuckles, a pitying noise, “If only trebuchets were still an option.”

A spark. Suddenly, a plan forming.

“They are,” Cullen says, turning to the Herald. “If we turn them to the mountains above us.”

“We’d bury Haven.”

“This isn’t survivable, now. The only choice left is how spitefully we end this.”

“I didn’t race here only to have you drop rocks on my head.”

A hot flash courses through Cullen at Dorian’s words. Can’t the man see that there’s no feasible way out of this? Is his word not enough? It’s an irrational thought - Dorian doesn’t actually know his position within the Inquisition, despite his clear direction of their people.

Yet, Cullen refuses to see the logic of that, “So, we should just let him kill us?”

“You’re thinking like a blood mage!” Dorian yells.

Cullen swears he stops breathing. In that moment he falters. Falling, failing; it’s all the same. A phrase that holds so much weight, potential to ruin, spoken by a complete stranger. But it doesn’t make it any less true. For survival they need to bury Haven. He says as much. The Herald’s face remains determined; resolute and steadfast and all the things Cullen should be right now.

All he can do is stare at the furious look on Dorian’s face. This man doesn’t even know him, and yet he already knows exactly which buttons to push. Cullen flusters, gaping, going silent. He flounders for a reply, grasping for something - call it a reason, an excuse, for his sudden bewilderedness.

And then, the Chancellor speaks, and whatever small hope they had is restored.

The Herald runs back into the fray, Cassandra, Sera, and the Iron Bull at her heels. Cullen thinks of her selflessness, as he follows Haven’s people through the causeway and onto safety. How she was first accused of murder, then ascended to divinity, and now, as a sacrifice. _Maybe you’ll surprise your way out_ rings in his head. Cullen desperately wishes it didn’t sound so much like a final farewell as he thought it to be.

His eye’s stray to Dorian, at the head of the procession with Roderick.

Cullen wonders what is to come.

**II.**  
Cullen’s day to day is now filled with meetings, with the Inquisitor and her advisors, with his lieutenants, and the quartermaster. There seems to be a never-ending pile of paperwork waiting for his attention.

The list of names he acquired from Leliana is too long. It weighs heavy in the back of his mind, the sheer number of condolence letters he wrote in their early days here.

He should’ve done better.

But there isn’t much he can do now, as Cassandra is wont to remind him. Even though they both know that Cullen knows that Cass is prone to the exact same thing.

There hasn’t really been a chance to settle in yet. The stronghold needs months worth of restoration done to it. The hall itself took nearly a day to completely clean of fallen planks and loose debris. The only constant has been the Inquisitor’s throne.

Cullen doesn’t want to dive to deep into that particular symbolism, considering the nobility’s reaction to Trevelyan.

The somewhat discarded daughter of Bann Trevelyan, who has spent the majority of her life within Ostwick Circle. Some would call her emotionless. Cullen calls her hardened.

Sometimes, when Cullen’s temper gets the better of him, and his fist connects with the hard wood of the war table in anger, she’ll flinch. The barest movement of muscle, but to Cullen it couldn’t be any more obvious.

The first time it happens he apologises instantly. Aeryn dips her head in acknowledgement, white-blonde hair hiding pale green eyes. Cullen backtracks, making a fool of himself as the others look on. Josephine in sympathy, Cassandra’s also, and Leliana’s calculating gaze that he can never make heads nor tails of. _Commander_ , Aeryn says, her voice gentle despite her fear, _it’s fine._

It makes his gut roll with something horrid, along with the knowledge that he was once complicit.

That’s the last of it.

The following days are spent hashing out plans on their involvement in Orlais’ peace talks, on finding Hawke, and everything else to do with maintaining a population the size of a small city. Refugees continue to arrive. Skyhold isn’t small, but it is by no means large. Soon, if this chaos continues, they’ll have to begin setting up tents. It’s one thing, to be a safe haven. It’s another to be the Inquisition. Because that is what they truly are now, in the face of the threat posed by the Elder One.

His mind strays to Dorian. As it so often has, lately. They’ve struck up an odd friendship; all-but-exiled mage and former templar. Not the oddest, Cullen is willing to admit, but after coming from a life where such relations were deeply discouraged, there’s a certain rebellious feel to it.

It had started one sunny afternoon. Cullen, on a well-deserved break, was playing chess in the garden against himself. He hadn't know where the set came from. It had appeared days ago, underneath the gazebo that he walks past every evening to reach the war room. Josephine shoots him an intuitive look a couple of days later and he suspects she had a hand in it.

From the corner of his eye, as he placed the white bishop back down, is movement.

“Lord Pavus,” he said after a moment of recognition. “Is there something I can help you with?”

Dorian gestured to the chess board, “Oh no, Commander, I just couldn’t help but wonder if you’d like a partner?"

“You play?”

“My father taught me. Said it was something any respectable mage should be adept at.”

There’s an underlying tone of warning that had stopped Cullen from inquiring further.

“Well then, if you have time, I’d enjoy a match.” Cullen replied, voice somewhat stilted. Even with years of experience of dealing with nobles under his belt, talking to Dorian then makes him nervous. Whether it’s because of his close friendship with the Inquisitor, or the visceral reaction of their first meeting, Cullen isn’t sure.

Dorian slid gracefully into the chair across from him. It soon became apparent that Dorian doesn’t so much as know the game, but rather uses several underhanded tactics to make it seem like he does. But Cullen enjoyed the afternoon far too much to point it out. Conversation flowed easily between them, despite how nonsensical it was. Dorian talked about a mission to the Hinterlands, and how the Inquisitor led a stray druffalo home. Cullen mentioned his recruits, the new training programme he’s trying to plan that incorporates equal amounts of individual talent and co-operation. Topics span from the chef and her food to the tavern and the still that Varric swears he doesn’t have.

Then, when it’s closing in on sunset Dorian had asked, “So, this time next week?” Cullen couldn't say yes fast enough.

**III.  
**Somewhere near the end of the week, Trevelyan calls the war council together at sunset. It’s not that odd, considering they haven’t actually set up a consistent schedule, but Cullen was certain they’d stick with their after-breakfast-finishing-ambitiously-before-lunch meetings. It’s odd enough that he makes a note of it, as he walks through the main hall towards the entrance and back to his office.

He’s halfway down the staircase when he realises a practice ring has popped up between the tavern and the smithy. He vaguely remembers a request amongst the hundreds on his desk that he’d signed and sent to the Herald without a second glance.

From here, it’s clear that the two sparring are experienced. Cullen casts a critical eye, confident in his assessment that the elf is a rouge, and her human opponent a mage. They both move fluidly, in a dance-like synchronises. The wooden stave the mage wields rolls across his broad shoulders, dropping almost to the floor before it’s caught and swung upwards. It’s a rare move Cullen’s only seen a handful of times. What would be the focal point of the stave is pressing into the elf’s breastbone; one of her practice daggers is poised to pierce the underside of his jaw, the other his femoral artery. It’s the mage’s knowledge of close combat that is impressive. It’s a rare style throughout Thedas, let alone Tevinter. The only other mage he knows who has the same skill is Hawke. 

Cullen reaches the fence of the ring as the two break apart. An exhilarated grin splits the elf’s face. She isn’t someone Cullen knows, and it takes him a moment to recognise that her partner is Dorian.

Dorian spies him and is quick to make introductions, “Commander, surely you two have met?” 

“We haven’t had the pleasure, no,” Cullen gives the elf a smile. “Cullen Rutherford.”

“Velrys, of Clan Lavellan,” she replies in an accent not unlike Trevelyan’s. “And the pleasure is all mine.”

Cullen shifts, uncomfortable at her flirtatious tone. He’d welcome the attention, any other day, but _gods_ her very personality makes him think of Solona, and that’s not a time he wants to dwell on. It’s not like Lavellan isn’t undeserving, either; she _is_ beautiful, all lean muscle and firelight hair, but Dorian beside her is radiant in the setting sun, bathed in the warm golden light. And Cullen can’t take his eyes off Dorian.

Not really.

Cullen had been far more captivated by the dangerous grace of Dorian than the economic brutality of Lavellan, and that’s a truth he’s barely willing to acknowledge.

“Another round, Vel?” Dorian says, breaking Cullen from his musings. “We did draw, after all.”

Lavellan laughs, “A draw, Pavus? I could’ve cut your throat.”

“Ah, and I could’ve blown apart your chest cavity, my dear, but I didn’t.”

Something ice-cold travels down Cullen’s spine at that, something inexplicable, something that has his instincts screaming at him to get out, to _run._ It’s not that Cullen doesn’t know that a mage is never unarmed, it’s not even that Dorian knows it too. It’s the casualness of it all, Dorian’s laconic but witty response, a phrase falling so easily from his mouth that sets Cullen on high alert.

(Cullen doesn’t acknowledge that this, too, reminds him of Solona; retrospectively, this moment is the beginning of the end.)

Surely, Lavellan must realise the risk; wooden daggers are nothing against the ever-present lightning and fire at Dorian’s fingertips. Cullen watches as Lavellan flourishes her practice daggers with a twitch of her wrist. By some unspoken agreement, they fall into opposite sides of the ring, circling one another. Cullen’s focus is on Dorian.

He moves with an almost predatory grace. Each footfall is calculated in a way that Cullen knows comes from years of training and well-deserved confidence. Cullen is aware that Dorian’s never had to hide his magic, never been scorned by his town people because of his birthright. To watch how a mage moves, growing up embracing their power as opposed to seeing firsthand how Circle-trained mages cower more than they flourish is chilling. It makes Cullen hate everything he’s ever stood for somehow more than he already does.

Lavellan rushes. Her daggers disappear as she spins, reappearing as Dorian dodges underneath her arm. He brings the stave up, whacking it into Lavellan’s stomach. Again, Cullen wonders why and when and how Dorian’s become so adept at close quarter’s combat.

It startles Cullen, to realise he wants to know more about Dorian.

In a move full of speed and danger, Lavellan twists through the air behind Dorian. Her daggers, behind her back just a moment ago, find their place along Dorian’s jugular. It’s only wood, and they’re only training, but by the Maker, Cullen is breathless. There’s so much potentional in the both of them. Cullen so very much regrets that they aren’t his soldiers; Dorian grows more integral to the inner circle every day, and there’s something in the way Lavellan moves that just screams Leliana.

Dorian fade-steps out from under Lavellan’s daggers, laughing as he does.

Lavellan, on the other hand, scowls, “We said no magic, mage.”

“ _You_ said no magic,” Dorian smirks. “I don’t recall saying anything of the sort.”

It’s a very _Dorian_ notion, Cullen thinks.

**IV.  
**“Did you hear about Mother Giselle?” Cullen overhears Cassandra say to Leliana as he pushes his way through the double doors of the war room. “Who am I kidding? Of course you heard.”

Leliana laughs, and Cullen notes that she doesn’t disagree.

Cassandra continues, barely acknowledging Cullen as he makes his way in. He keeps one ear on the conversation, his attention otherwise occupied with yet another report. He’d never really taken Cassandra as a gossip. Leliana, he knows, wields gossip and rumour like a weapon. The Herald finally arrives, and their meeting begins.

An hour later, after several dispatches and post-mission briefings, Cullen waits until the others have left before asking what’s on his mind.

“Herald? A word?”

Trevelyan nods, “Was there something you need, Cullen?”

“I overheard Cassandra, earlier… She mentioned Mother Giselle.”

Aeryn raises an eyebrow, and Cullen should’ve known to get straight to the point instead of trying to be subtle, just once. 

“That is, to say, something happened with Dorian?”

“Yes, something did.” Aeryn says, and anxiety pools in Cullen’s stomach for reasons unknown. “But before you ask what, you really should go talk to Dorian.”

“Of course. Thank you, Lady Trevelyan.”

Cullen walks back to his office, almost dragging his feet while mulling over Trevelyan’s response. It’s a slow process, this recognising that the only thing on his mind that isn’t to do with immediate concerns of his office of Commander is Dorian.

He can’t help but think – is this infatuation purely because there’s some undeniable spark between them, or is it because Cullen is only blood and flesh and alone for too long? It wouldn’t be the first time. Solona, who turned into something so much more. Hawke, who now hates him and who Cullen can’t fault for that.

He doesn’t want to make the same mistakes. He’s changed, Cullen knows that like he knows that breathing is easier without lyrium, but he’s so very _human._ And humans are fallible. 

Cullen finds Dorian hidden away in his nook of the library. He’s curled up in the red, high-backed chair that the rumor mill says Dorian personally _floated_ up here. What surprises him the most is that Dorian doesn’t have his head in a book. He’s looking out the window, past the walls of Skyhold, attention captured by some unknown thing beyond the snow-covered mountain range.

Dorian hasn’t noticed him yet, and Cullen is loath to interrupt.

“Dorian.”

The way Dorian flinches at his name tells how far away he is. Cullen is so used to the Dorian who is always aware of his surroundings, an almost preternatural awareness. Leliana hasn’t even been able to sneak up on him.

It’s takes Dorian a moment to even recognise him – and that, that is harrowing.

“Dorian,” Cullen repeats, and suddenly falters. He doesn’t know what to say, what to ask, didn’t really think this through. Just wanted to know if Dorian was _okay_.

“Yes, Cullen?”

“Are you alright?”

From the way Dorian’s face turns blank, it was the wrong thing to ask. It’s inelegant, that’s certain, but his voice is so bleedingly earnest that all Cullen can do is hope he hasn’t completely screwed it.

Something seems to give, the way Dorian flicker’s his eyes to Cullen’s and then towards the library behind him, and says, “Let’s go for a walk.”

They end up on the open walkway between Cullen’s office and Solas’ vivid frescoes.

It’s still mid-morning. The sun burns bright above them, not quite but almost beating out the chill of the wind. Below them, Skyhold bustles with noise. Ahead, Cullen thinks his office tower is a brooding reminder of all he doesn’t want to be right now. He’d much rather be on one of the outer walls. The snowy mountains bring him some small comfort. Beside him Dorian makes a noise, and Cullen suddenly grasps that perhaps this ever-present winter is not a comfort to the man born in the heat of sweltering Tevinter.

Dorian turns to him, “I’m sure you know of my parents.”

Cullen nods in response.

“Halward Pavus, the _esteemed_ Lord Asariel, and Lady Aquinea Thalrassian, magisters of the Tevinter Imperium. Both from very powerful Altus houses, as you can imagine. Theirs was an arranged marriage, and my birth a predetermined certainty. It is a point of much shame for them, that I did not turn out exactly how they wanted.”

All Cullen does is listen, doesn’t talk, as Dorian tells him of what happened in the Redcliffe tavern. Cullen has long been aware of the _rumours_ surrounding Dorian; his position as Commander would not allow it otherwise. It is sad, to think that something – love, in its purest form – is cherished here in Fereldan but cause of disownment on the other side of Thedas. Dorian explains his father’s ambush, of how Trevelyan convinces him to hear his father out, and how he half regrets it and half doesn’t.

“My father, of course, hasn’t said a word of this to my mother, I’m sure. House Thalrassian would not stand for blood magic used against one’s own family.” A sad smile graces Dorian’s lips. “Though, she has always wanted grandchildren, and with liquor as her crutch, I’m no longer sure of that.” 

Dorian falls silent with a sigh. It’s so unusual, to see him like this. Reserved and rejected, and Cullen hates it fiercely, that the world would forsake Dorian so.

“You don’t have to deal with this alone, Dorian.”

“Oh? And who would help little old me?”  
  
Cullen, too quick, replies, “I would.”  
  
Dorian turns to him. The look on his face is somewhere between open shock and gratitude and Cullen can feel the heat rising up the back of his neck.

“And the Herald, of course, already has. As would any of the advisors.” Cullen’s talking too fast, in that way you do when you’ve let some unsaid secret slip. “You’re a valued member of the inner circle.”  
  
“I don’t know if Cassandra shares that opinion,” Dorian teases.

Dorian laughs, and it’s somehow the lightest, freest sound Cullen’s heard in months.

That afternoon, after Trevelyan becomes Inquisitor, after they’ve all realised that this is bigger than them, Dorian catches his eye across the hall. He mouths _thank you_.

The small, open smile Dorian gives him has butterflies dancing in his stomach.

**V.**  
Cullen, with all the he is, absolutely hates balls. But he understands the importance of the Inquisition’s presence. Even if it means sacrificing breathing space in this Andraste-damned formal jacket Josephine forced him into.

At least the boots are comfortable.

He is pressed back against a wall, trying to fend off a number of suitors. To think that months of meticulous planning were all leading up to this, the Commander trying to desperately hide behind a plant at Halamshiral, is hilarious. Not that said plant is actually helping at all.

The Inquisitor has stopped by a handful of times, reporting in. The tales of espionage and deceit largely go over his head, much more Leliana’s speed. But Cullen’s glad for the updates nonetheless. When Trevelyan goes as far to ask _anything to report, Commander?_ he’s suitably appreciated. She mentions briefly, after he’s complained of a building headache, that he should go find Dorian in the gardens, as if there isn’t a mage in front of him right now nor the fact the advisors had spent a solid three days planning strategic positions for those in attendance.

He thinks that Dorian would be thriving in this environment, out in the garden, socialising and politicking in a way Cullen will never understand, the inherent ability to delve into crisis that only comes from being born into it. He wonders just _what_ Trevelyan meant when she suggested finding Dorian.

Cullen manages, eventually, to extract himself from his _following_ of suitors. He circles the ballroom, momentarily blinded by the sheer decadence of it all. The gold gilding on the walls, the statuary, the elegance of the ladies and the dapperness of the gentlemen. He wonders how a kid from Honnleath ended up here.

Out on the balustrade Leliana beckons him. Cullen finds it a certain kind of humour, that she, as the Nightingale of the Imperial Court, can drift in and out of the peace talks on a whim but he must remain staunchly in the ballroom, entertaining the fancies of the nobles.

“Cullen,” Leliana says, voice candid. “How are you enjoying the ball?”

“It’s… a different sort of military campaign,” he replies, somewhat deadpan because, well, he did just spend at least two inconsequential hours spinning war time tales to a bunch of lords and ladies. And Cullen _knows_ that Leliana knows he’s suffering.

She has the audacity to chuckle.

“Quite true, but now you see the delicacy of the other side of warfare, no?”

Cullen dips his head, “I’ll concede you that, Sister Nightingale.”

“Your soldiers are in position throughout the grounds, as are my agents. We’ll be able to move as soon as the Inquisitor gives the word.”

It’s a relief to here that everyone’s in position, but the waiting game that comes is always the worst in Cullen’s experience.

“I suppose I’ll go back in there,” Cullen says, disdain tainting his voice.

“It won’t be long, Cullen,” there’s a gleam in Leliana’s eye that Cullen isn’t sure he likes, let alone trusts. “Inquisitor Trevelyan is using this time to ensure the fallout is minimal for all parties.”

While Cullen isn’t necessarily surprised to here that, he isn’t so inept to read between the lines and thus asks, “So, she’s still undecided on who to support.”

“The Inquisitor will do what is best for Orlais.”

Which is all but Leliana-code for _I don’t know either, Cullen, but we must trust in Aeryn’s judgement, because united we stand and divided we fall._ But Leliana tends to forget that he knows her, so Cullen knows she has a plan regardless of the Inquisitor’s own. It’s just a matter of which one is enacted first.

He had all but pleaded Gaspard’s case, of the advantages of having a ruler actually supported by his army. There had been dissent amongst the war council, all four of them throwing ideas at the Inquisitor, who had sat and taken it all in with a considering look on her face.

He only prays she makes the right call. Cullen returns to the ballroom after that, ensconced as he is in his place between the wall, the table, and the nobility. Barely ten minutes later there’s a commotion on the balcony. When Trevelyan, in her white-blonde, stave-wielding fury, accuses Duchess Florianne of treason, Cullen doesn’t know what to think. No one in this room would’ve been able to guess that. Not even Leliana, and Cullen can only read her face of surprise because of their years of acquaintance.

After he oversees the removal of their soldiers from the palace, Cullen finds himself on one of the many balconies of Halamshiral. It’s an audacious, aggrandised thing, as much as a balcony can be audacious or aggrandised. He’s leaning with his elbows against the banister. There’s a carving along the railing – which is marble, Cullen notes – of some lost heroic that he’d probably know if he wasn’t trying to wrap his head around Florianne’s ambitions.

Cullen lets out a breath, grateful that this is over, that he finally has a moment to himself.

Footsteps behind him have other ideas.

“Ah, Cullen,” comes Dorian’s voice. “There you are.”

Dorian comes to rest beside him, back against the railing. This is the first of him Cullen has seen all night, and he was right. The lights and sounds from the ballroom spill over his face and it looks as if Dorian’s revelling in it. He looks _alive_ in a way Cullen can’t name.

“What an interesting night. A bit lacking to Tevinter’s standards, though, I must say.”

Cullen turns to him, eyebrow raised.

Dorian gestures a flippant hand, “It’s not a _real_ ball in the Imperium until there’s blood spilt.”

“I apologise for our apparent lackluster,” Cullen says, deadpan, to Dorian’s light laugh.

“Oh, it _was_ intriguing. The way Aeryn was able to find blackmail on all three of them? Inspiring.”

Cullen is well aware. The Inquisitor _is_ inspiring, however much he doesn’t agree with the end result. It is a stroke of genius, however, to make all three of them work together; the chevaliers remain loyal to Gaspard, who now must work in the best interest of throne, on which Celene continues to sit to appease the people, whilst Briala returns to work in the shadows. And the Inquisitor, the force controlling all three. As Trevelyan’s influence continues to grow, Cullen can’t help but wonder what that means for the future of the Inquisition _and_ the Inquisitor.

The music changes in the ballroom, suddenly, to a slow, almost heady waltz. It’s romantic, and dazzling, and it’s perfect, Cullen thinks. Melancholy enough as he is to think that he’d ever have a chance with the man beside him.

“May I have this dance, my dear Commander?” Dorian asks with a flourish of his hand, proving him wrong.

Cullen laughs, shaking his head. _My dear Commander._ He should be offended; surely, if Dorian was anyone else – if Cullen himself was anyone else - he would be. 

_My dear Commander._ He doesn’t want to like it nearly as much as he does.

“I’ve two left feet, Dorian. Perhaps another time?” Cullen doesn’t mean for it to be a question; it should be a statement – he’s the Commander of the Inquisition, and he is not so ignorant of his position that dancing with a Tevinter mage would cull much of their monetary support.

The look on Dorian’s face makes him think twice.

But Dorian, ever the political animal, brushes it off almost as easy as breathing. Cullen hates that it has to be this way. Hates that he has to put his duty first, hates that this always ends the same way.

“I will hold you to that, Commander,” Dorian says, and turns away. 

**VI.  
**Two weeks later finds them all back and settled at Skyhold. It’s been a never-ending circus, the aftermath of the Inquisitor’s decision to have Florianne arrested and sent into exile. The entire night plays on loop in his head. The fate of Orlais, seemingly stable, has never been so fragile. _The Great Game_ , Cullen thinks, _well, what is the Inquisition then, if not the greatest player of them all._

The trip home had been waylaid by Leliana, who, backed by Josephine, was adamant that they remain at Halamshiral for an extra handful of days to _ensure the transition of power,_ or so Leliana had said.

Her choice of words still run chills down Cullen’s spine. Spoken only to the war council, they had been a stark, abrupt reminder that the Inquisition – Trevelyan – is now that power.

Cullen is glad to be home. More than words can express.

Being home, however, means back to paperwork and people moving and commanding. And Dorian avoiding him. Or Cullen avoiding him, he isn’t sure which is which.

It’s been a dull two week.

Today, the sun is bright overhead. Cullen wants nothing more than to get out of his office, even just for an hour. Outside he can hear children playing. Carefree laughter floats through his open door. Sounds from the practice ring likewise drift through. It reminds him of a simpler time, back home in Honnleath. 

Words are starting to blur on the page in front of him. Cullen can’t even remember the last time he took a break.

He makes his way to the kitchen. The chef bustles around in preparation for dinner, and Cullen tries his utmost to stay out of the way as he makes a cup of elfroot tea. Notoriously good for not only healing wounds, but headaches and sore eyes as well. The cup steams in his face as he takes a sip.

Instead of returning to his office, Cullen opts through a walk through the garden. Herbs and flowers bloom all around, leaves catching in the sun. He’s so caught by the sight of spring that he quite literally runs into Dorian.

Both of them stagger backwards. Tea splashes over the rim of his cup. Cullen hasn’t seen hide nor hair of Dorian in two weeks, and now it seems like Dorian hasn’t even realised it’s _Cullen_ who ran into him. Cullen’s stunned into silence. It’s half shock at physically running into Dorian and half seeing Dorian for the first time in two weeks knowing that he’s the cause of that avoidance.

“Would you _watch_ where you’re going?” 

“Dorian –”

They speak at the same time in a mess of words. It’s fitting, in some odd way, Cullen thinks. He spots the moment that Dorian recognises that it’s _him._ A flash of grey eyes, then a sweep of magic over his skin in soft acknowledgement that Cullen had been so used to before he went and put his foot in his mouth at Halamshiral. It’s – reassuring, is the only word Cullen can think of.

“Cullen,” Dorian says, his voice cold and detached and nothing like the warm wash of his magic. “Apologies.”

“No, no, it’s my fault.” Cullen lifts the cup. “Headache.” 

“Of course.”  
  
“Too much paperwork, you know how it goes.”  
  
Dorian gives a stilted laugh, and Cullen wants to drown in the awkwardness of it all. He wants to find an olive branch. A way to say, ‘I’m sorry I fucked up, but can you imagine what Josephine would _do_ at the scandal of a Tevinter mage dancing with the Commander of the Inquisition?’

“Are you busy? Right now?” Cullen asks, plan forming. “We haven’t played chess in a while.”

It’s not the most elegant way – a subtle reminder that they’ve both been distant. That they’ve orbited around each other without touching the last two weeks, fourteen days, three hundred and thirty-six hours.

Cullen misses Dorian more than he thought he would. More than he should.

Dorian looks at him, something guarded and hesitant, but replies, “Only if you’ve the time.”

So, they make their way to their chess set. It’s remained untouched from their last game – Dorian had placed preservation spells over the gazebo after that first match. It’s become a sanctuary, a place to escape to after a hard day. Cullen has missed that, too.

They settle in, restart the game, and barely talk. Cullen isn’t used to this. Usually they discuss all matter of things. Perhaps, the rift between them now is too big for him to cross through a mere chess game.

“How have you been, Cullen?” Dorian asks, as he takes one of Cullen’s bishops. “You seem… preoccupied.”  
  
“Orlais is a hard mistress,” Cullen says with a smirk, at the thought that Orlais is anything but the Inquisition’s.

Cullen rants and raves about issues stemming from the night at the Winter Palace, all the while avoiding bringing up the dance. Dorian already knows most of it anyway, as a member of the inner circle. Trevelyan rarely keeps anything from her closest agents.

Something clicks, eventually, and Cullen releases a breath. They’re back, tentatively, on their usual footing of easy conversation and wealthy friendship. Cullen finds himself mentioning Mia, her latest strongly worded letter; Dorian alludes to contact with his mother. Dorian talks and talks and Cullen’s missed the sound of his melodic cadence. Back to Dorian’s gentle teasing and Cullen’s fond exasperation.

Throughout the game, Cullen pretends he doesn’t notice Dorian slip pieces up his sleeve. It’s a fair trade off; Dorian’s teasing is merciless now, like Cullen hasn’t been crushing him every game. Barely a second later Cullen hears the voice of the Inquisitor.

“I hope I’m not interrupting?”

“Of course not, Aeryn,” Dorian says. “I was just about to beat our dear Commander.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?” Cullen replies, and delights in the way Dorian laughs, open and carefree.

Cullen wins, which is becoming increasingly rare in the face of Dorian’s cheating.

“Don’t be smug, there’ll be no living with you.” Dorian says as he stands, and Cullen can’t help the warm flush of his cheeks at that.

Before Cullen realises it, Trevelyan is settling in across from him, and he rearranges the board without so much as a thought. Dorian leaves, and Cullen watches him go. It takes Trevelyan’s polite cough to bring his attention back. Cullen ignores the blush he can feel on the back of his neck.

“I hope you don’t mind, Cullen?”  
  
“Of course not, Inquisitor,” Cullen says, echoing Dorian from moments ago. “Would you like a game?”  
  
Trevelyan dips her head in response. Their game begins. Cullen finds that in the wake of Halamshiral, the Inquisitor has barely changed. They chat about affairs, mutual interests, and Cullen finds himself opening up to her. To have a leader such as Trevelyan is a rare thing, Cullen knows, and he is grateful for how they have both come to be here; her as the Inquisitor and he as the commander of her forces.

Eventually, his thoughts circle back to Dorian. Dorian and how things are on the mend, if not already back to that steady, even keel that Cullen has come to rely upon.

He doesn’t mention it, but he knows that Trevelyan _knows._ Cullen would be a fool to think that Dorian hasn’t told her about how Cullen rejected him on the premise that he has two left feet of all things. Cullen half-hopes that they laughed over him, that Dorian brushed it off. He knows that isn’t true, if the last two weeks have spelled out anything at all, it’s that he can’t keep pretending.

But he will, won’t acknowledge that he knows _exactly_ what this all means, knows what _Dorian_ means.

For the sake of the Inquisition. Or so he tells himself.

**VII.  
**This morning he’d woken up with a pounding headache. From then, it had just turned into one of _those_ days. The lyrium withdrawal is getting worse. Cullen hasn’t a clue on what to do. Cassandra fails to see reason. Doesn’t seem to understand the Cullen _isn’t_ coping. Perseverance, she says, like it’ll solve the desperate _hunger_ he constantly feels. Cullen’s persevered enough, thank you very much, and he’s _over it_.

He makes his way through the garden after the war council, tells himself it’s not purely because Dorian only returned last night from the Emprise. The council weighs heavily on his mind. More so than usual. Increasing reports of open rifts and trying to allocate some level of urgency to them is running everyone raged. Most of all the Inquisitor.

The only way he could describe Trevelyan is tired. Her report of the expedition to the Emprise du Lion had been concerning, to say the least.

Cullen definitely does not envy the Inquisitor nor her vanguard, having to suffer in such harsh weather.

He leaves the garden without having encountered Dorian, and Cullen doesn’t want to admit he’s disappointed.

The hum of lyrium is worse in that afternoon.

The box sitting on his bookshelf all but calls his name. His office walls feel like they’re closing in on him. The only thing he can do is turn to the window, breath in the air, but it’s hopeless. Minutes or hours pass, he isn’t sure. Lyrium sings ever so sweet in his ear. The box makes it way to the desk, open, Cullen braced over it and head hanging.

The temptation to pick up the vial _burns._

And then he throws the box, lyrium and all, into the wall just as the door next to it opens.

“ _Commander_ ,” Trevelyan says, sharp, then softens once she sees the guilt stricken look on Cullen’s face. “I hope that wasn’t meant for me.”

Cullen freezes, in the next instant rushing over to make sure she’s okay. Maker, how could he be so _reckless_.

“Forgive me, Inquisitor.”

Green eyes focus on him, and Cullen wonders if he imagines the flash of magic over them, the same sickly-coloured, neon-lime of the Anchor.

Cullen can’t help himself; he tells Trevelyan everything, from Kinloch Hold, to the explosion at Kirkwall, to Meredith’s iron first around his throat, to trusting Cassandra’s judgement to suddenly _not_. Asks her what she should do, because she’s proved herself in spades as a worthy leader, and someone Cullen is willing to lay his life on the line for. Like all his - their - soldiers do. When she says, _I trust you Cullen,_ relief fills him, an unclenching of muscles, an unfurling knot of uncertainty.

“Forgive me,” Cullen repeats. “If you don’t mind, Inquisitor, I have things to attend to.”

Trevelyan nods, acceptance in every line of her face. Cullen watches her go, relief and panic cresting into something like hope. Cullen can’t help but think what he would’ve done had she requested he start taking lyrium again. Go mad, perhaps, in the long run.

“Aeryn,” he calls, and the Inquisitor starts at the rare use of her given name, but turns, nonetheless. “ _Thank you_.”

Respect. That’s the emotion that fills her eyes now.

“It’s quite alright, Cullen.”

Trevelyan opens the door to leave and on the other side, face carefully blank, is Dorian. 

Cullen stops breathing. Anxiety washes through him, drowning out relief and hope and increasing the panic tenfold. _Maker,_ this wasn’t how he wanted Dorian to find out - he didn’t want Dorian to know at all. But here he is, eyes glancing between him and Trevelyan, hand raised as if to knock.

“Hello, Dorian,” Trevelyan says, as if it’s not abundantly clear that Dorian just overheard possibly - probably - their entire conversation. She slips out without another word, but Cullen notices the way she gently squeezes Dorian’s shoulder before disappearing completely.

Dorian, still in the doorway, doesn’t speak. Cullen _can’t._ The words to explain himself are heavy on his tongue, but what more could he say that Dorian hasn’t already overheard?

“Cullen,” Dorian says, voice soft. He’s suddenly hit with the fact that it’s been over a month since they last saw each other.

And this is their reunion; a splintered box at Dorian’s feet, Cullen himself fractured from his conversation with Trevelyan. Thinks about the warm wash of Dorian’s magic over his skin and how it feels like the most tender, most favourite of all hellos, how no other mage has ever done that before, how if they had Cullen would’ve done something he’d regret when tied to the Order. 

“How much did you hear?” Cullen barely chokes out.

“Enough to know you’re no longer taking lyrium.”

Cullen closes his eyes, can’t bare to see whatever expression is gracing Dorian’s face.

“Cullen,” Dorian repeats, finally stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. “Do you remember, what you said to me when I told you about my parents?”

 _Maker,_ of course he does. He’d meant it with every fibre of his being, how could he forget?

“You said, my dear Commander,” Dorian pauses, and Cullen starts when he feels fingertips on his jaw. “You said I didn’t have to do it alone, that I had _support._ ”

Cullen stares at Dorian, all too aware of his finger’s cradling his jaw. Dorian’s thumb sweeps softly over his chin, just below his lip, and Cullen’s never felt so _raw_ before.

“That applies to you too.”

“Please, Dorian, understand, I didn’t –”

“Shut up, Cullen,” Dorian says, softly.

Cullen allows himself this. This moment of tenderness, leaning into Dorian, just this once.

And then he pulls away, and Dorian lets him go.

**VIII.  
**In retrospect, Cullen thinks, Dorian had a point (knew it in the moment, too) but that doesn’t make it hurt any less:

Cullen is patrolling the battlements. It’s not something he usually does; far beneath the Commander, as some who think status is more important than actions would argue. The fact remains that Cullen is a staunch believer of only asking people do to what you yourself would. Hence his patrol.

It’s nice to get out, that’s for certain. It feels like days have passed since he was last outside underneath the sun, let alone at night. It’s dark, but the stars shine so brightly here that Cullen’s breath caught the first time he saw it.

The nighttime beauty is irrelevant, however, once he’s slammed into the stone wall, an arm across his throat.

His first ingrained instinct is to shut down the surrounding magic, and it surges through him with a weak, puttering pulse that does nothing at all. Next, he goes for the sword at his waist, but there is no room to move between him and his assailant.

“ _Hawke_.”

The voice is Dorian’s, but Cullen can’t recognise him in the dark. The moon’s light barely reaches the battlements on this side of the fortress. What does washes Dorian in a pale sheen, silverite eyes dark in the shadows of his face. His tone doesn’t bode well; Cullen also isn’t an idiot. It doesn’t take long to put two and two together. Dorian is the current object of his affections; however much Cullen still refuses to really acknowledge it. Hawke once was. Gods only know how Dorian found out. It flashes through his mind; another thing he kept from Dorian, just like the lyrium. 

“Dorian?”  
  
“Don’t _Dorian_ me.”

“What are you talking about?” He knows how it sounds. Like a wall to hide behind; one that he’s built up over the last handful of years. Another deflection. And Cullen loathes it the second he says it.

“What am I talking about?” Dorian parrots back. “The fact that _Varric_ just alluded that the two of you have _history_.”

Cullen lets out a sharp sound through his nose.

“And? Do you?”  
  
Cullen takes a breath, not sure where this is going but certain that Dorian’s anger doesn’t mean anything good, “Yes.”

It’s not – Hawke and him, they were doomed from the start. Cullen knew it, Hawke knew, everyone in their circle knew it. It’s less surprising that it’s Varric, but odd, if only because Cullen knows that Varric isn’t one to bring up the past as pertaining to the Champion of Kirkwall. There’s some hidden agenda here, Cullen is certain, but he’s too tired of it all to figure it out. Not with Varric, or Hawke, and Dorian deserves better than smoke and mirrors.

Cullen remembers the day they met. Hawke, red smear over the bridge of his nose like war paint, eyes bright and defiant as only an apostate mage could be. Hawke is the first person he confides in, that Meredith is unstable, that her path is not one he can follow, and that is somewhat the tipping point. And him, scarred from the Fereldan Circle and newly promoted to Knight-Captain of the Gallows, as if that was any better than Kinloch Hold.

He can still remember the rush of adrenaline, sword point to Meredith’s throat, the blame of her actions and attitude laying square on his shoulders, the way she focused that clear blue gaze and proclaimed him a blood mage thrall. That is what crystallises his conviction that she must be stopped. The way Hawke fought was a thing to behold, commanding flame and stave simply an extension of his arm. Yet, of all people, they’d be the last to _be_ something.

But they fell in together, in that rapid-violent way like the first spark of a wildfire. The mage and the templar – and that’s not lost on him now. He’s simply just an ex-templar; but really, how long does it take to distance yourself from your identity, because _ex-templar_ still sits in his mouth weirdly, as if he’s trying to fit the phrase to him, rather than the other way around. Cullen looks back at it and thinks if he never met Hawke, he wouldn’t be here now, off lyrium and trying to be _better._ They were never in love – nothing even remotely close – but there was the capacity for it. If only Cullen had stopped lyrium earlier, then perhaps they would’ve had the chance. But that is neither here nor there. Hawke is not the object of his affections; Dorian’s forearm still pressed to his throat is evident of that. Besides, Fenris made it quite clear what would happen should Cullen ever lay a hand on Hawke again.

(Cullen is reluctant to admit that he has a type; tall, dark, handsome mages of unparalleled power.)

Dorian takes a physical step back, and Cullen starts to think this is worse than he thought.

“So, what was this then?” Dorian gestures between them, as if Cullen can interpret that when they’ve been dancing around each other for so long. “Just something to pass the time?”

“Don’t think I haven’t heard the rumours,” Cullen says, low, and to him it sounds like an admission of this thing between them, that they both have the capacity to hurt one another.

“ _What_ rumours, Cullen?” Dorian hisses back.

“Between you and the Iron Bull.” Cullen replies, and watches the colour drain from Dorian’s face. “So is it not a bit rich, coming to me about Hawke, when I could’ve done the same thing a long time ago?”

That sits between them, unwilling to be touched, as if it was meant to _stay_ untouched. Which it would have, had Cullen not said anything. But having Dorian accost him on patrol, bringing up Hawke as if he has no faults of his own makes the ugly monster inside him rear its head.

“You should’ve told me.”

“Why?” Is Cullen’s one-worded response, and it falls flat even to his own ears; there is no denying that there is something brewing between the Commander and the Altus, not now. Not when Dorian is across from him, not when Cullen is ready to rip his heart out from his chest.

He does not miss the fact that Dorian hasn’t refuted the claim.

“I don’t owe you the details of who I once slept with, Dorian.” Cullen states, oddly calm.

Doesn’t think about how he’s just thrown the same exact thing back at Dorian. Doesn’t think about it was also Varric who made the off-handed comment of how _they’re always flirting, Curly, it’s painful just to listen to._ And, gods, what does it matter, when now they’re just aiming to wound the other.

“This would be so much easier, wouldn’t it, _Commander,_ if I was some brainwashed, Circle trained mage. If I didn’t understand the full extent of my magic.” Dorian spits his title with fury.

This is always what it comes back to; Cullen was a templar. That has always proved to be his downfall. Somehow, he thought this time around would be different. That Dorian would be different. And Cullen can’t even argue that he’s wrong _._ He still holds that in him, that power that comes with _templar._ The lack of lyrium has dulled it, but Cullen’s never been more aware that he could kill that connection between the Fade and Dorian with but a thought. It’s a painful reminder, florid against everything else.

It’s barely been a week since he spilt his guts all over the floor of his office to Trevelyan, and by consequence, Dorian. It’s barely been a week and Cullen hasn’t stopped thinking about how tender and raw and _alive_ it was to be under Dorian’s fingertips alight on his jaw.

“ _Maker_ ,” Cullen breathes. “It’s never been about that!”

He can’t even remember how they started fighting, how they reached this point. Dorian is livid and Cullen can’t tell _why._ Knows it’s something to do with the fact that he’s no longer taking lyrium, knows it’s something to do with the way they’re edging closer and closer past friends and into uncharted territory, the fact that whatever history lies dead between him and Hawke has been resurrected with malintent.

“What is it then? Because I’m a man, because I’m from Tevinter?”  
  
“ _No._ ”

“What, then?! You’re hiding behind the Inquisition! Hiding behind that mantle called Commander!”

That breaks him. It does – split second and Cullen forgets how to breath because it’s _true._ He knows, _gods_ how he _knows._ His views have always bordered on dogmatic; worse when in Kirkwall. _This is how he lost Solona. This is what drove Hawke away from him,_ he thinks, _this is what Dorian will hate him for_. It’s a reminder that since the moment they met, Dorian has seen through him like nobody else. An uncanny ability to hit where it hurts with unnerving accuracy. Something breaks but all he can see is the unbridled fury in Dorian’s face.

Cullen doesn’t know what to say, can’t say anything that’ll even be considered an apology.

Thinks back to the beginning of this all – falling and failing – _you’re thinking like a blood mage!_

Dorian’s next words are quiet, angrier still, “I can’t keep doing this.”

Dorian twists away from him, storming off into the dark. Cullen watches him leave, and it shouldn’t sting as much as it does when he doesn’t look back.

Dorian is a violent thing, angered, resplendent _._ The very thought snaps to the forefront of his mind; Dorian has the capacity to ruin him. It’s startlingly clear now.

It’s already happened.

This was inevitable, Cullen thinks, looking back. This is how it always happens. It was the same with Solona and Hawke.

History repeats. He should know that by now.

**IX.  
**Their fight haunts him, days and weeks after it happens. More so as the Inquisitor’s plans advance, and Cullen doesn’t have any one to turn to. Doesn’t know who else knows him half as well as Dorian, in that inexplicable way of barely acknowledged and burning intimacy. All those conversations in the garden, all those secrets spilt between them, stuff that Cullen hasn’t told anyone else. It weighs heavy on his mind. Feels like something they can’t come back from, their harsh words and harsher implications, as if they’d thrown everything over the edge. But Cullen, for the sake of the Inquisition, pushes it aside.

(He refuses to acknowledge that this is yet another moment of history repeating: his personal feelings are insignificant. They do not matter when there is a Circle to be contained, corruption to be weeded out, or a war to be fought. If anyone is to be a pillar of unwavering strength, it is the ~~Knight-Captain, Knight-Commander~~ , Commander of the Inquisition.)

Cullen knows he’s really only on the periphery of it all. Advisor, Commander; they’re both titles he isn’t allowed to go into the field with. He stays more often than not in his office, drowning in reports and liaising with the quartermaster. More often than not his isolation causes his pin-point focus to stray to lyrium and its incessant ballad beating behind his eyelids. Cullen _craves_ to be back in the thick of things, to be active in his military role, to drive his sword through an enemy again.

Craves it so much sometimes he confuses it with lyrium addiction like the two are somehow equatable.

So, obviously, their campaign to Adamant is a welcome change.

It has been a while since Cullen was allowed free, unquestioned reign; it is _his_ expertise that is needed the most here. As he stands across from Trevelyan at the war table, going over battleplans with Cassandra, scouting parties with Leliana, requisitions with Josephine, Cullen has a quiet moment of _oh, this is what it was all leading up to._

It takes days to reach the Western Approach. Adamant Fortress stands before him with a presence of looming omnipotence in the middle of the desert, the Abyssal Rift a dangerous, never-ending fissure behind it. The aridness of the Approach and the clinging sand is enough to dissuade Cullen from ever returning. By the time they set up camp, there’s already reports of twisted ankles and dehydration and wyvern attacks. Cullen dispatches healers and lieutenants to help, but he can already tell this will be difficult, that the force will be stretched thin.

Cullen is well aware of what is at stake here; at best a decisive blow against the Venatori, if Leliana’s spies have accurately reported the Grey Warden situation, or at worst an impregnable demon-infested castle. Either way, it’s not ideal circumstances. Cullen pours over the castle’s architectural plans trying to find a weak point, the heavy double doors the only possibility. The Rift prevents flanking, the Fortress itself just slightly too small for a full-scale attack, not to mention the environment of the Approach itself as an enemy.

The creaking wheels of the siege engines echo in constant reminder.

The doors buckle under the metal spikes of the battering ram, splintering, opening the Fortress, dissolving into chaos. The trebuchets spin and the walls crack. Cullen turns away from Trevelyan, eyes catching Dorian’s in a brief moment of gut-wrenching suspense and speechlessness before the Inquisitor and her vanguard disappear behind the collapsed doors and into the Fortress.

It’s not enough. But he raises his sword anyway.

He, and his soldiers, are exhausted by the time they reach the topmost battlements. Cullen takes one look at the siege points and his breath stutters in his chest. His soldiers are dying in front of his eyes.

These people who he’s trained with, lived with, learnt with. He tracks Rylen with a keen eye, watches as one of his men, a dwarf named Cadash, steps in front of an oncoming Grey Warden blade.

He’ll never get used to it.

There’s a flash of sick-vibrant-lime from the corner of his eye. Cullen spins to see the sky splitting above them, the Inquisitor’s hand above her as the Mark of the Rift pulls Shades closer to their demise. Her stave spins above her head, once, twice, slammed to the ground as ice rents through the earth and upwards in deadly spikes.

His sword blocks a swing from a Warden – Cassandra suddenly beside him. Her greatsword cleaves through the demon. Cold, black ichor sprays the both of them. Cullen can’t raise his shield fast enough. The high edge of it is covered in arterial blood, eerily dark against the polished iron of the Watchful Eye. 

Cullen freezes at the screech of a despair demon.

He turns with Cassandra in synch, and across the battlements is Dorian.

Cullen’s always associated Dorian with ice; his reserved nature when they met, the way he fought leonine against Lavellan (who, Cullen idly notes, has become one of Leliana’s best agents) in training. All of it hark to a mastery of winter. He’s even seen Dorian use staves specific for ice, it’s not like the thought it completely unfounded. But then, he watches as lightning crackles across Dorian’s shoulders, rushing down his arms and the loud break as it strikes – that is an unequivocal truth. Dorian is made for lightning, or lightning for Dorian. Cullen stands, suspended, trapped in awe. Around him, the fight rages on, but all Cullen can do is watch, captivated, as Dorian brings an arc of pure energy down from the Heavens and cages the demon in brutal electricity.

He blinks. The moment breaks. Dorian swings the end of his stave upwards, blade carving a dark line through the demon. He blinks. _Dorian is a violent thing, angered, resplendent_. He blinks. Dorian disappears between Warden and Inquisition forces, tailing Trevelyan down a flight of stairs.

It’s the last Cullen sees of him, and hours later the reports start coming in. Cullen swears to Andraste that he stops breathing the moment they do.

The Inquisitor, Cole, Cassandra, and Dorian, along with Hawke and Stroud.

Fallen into the Fade, witnesses say. Their fate unknown.

 _Dorian_ might be dead.

A hot wave of selfishness follows that thought. Commander of the _Inquisitor’s_ forces and he’s more worried over the fate of her companion.

Leliana’s agent stares at him staring at the piece of parchment covered in her chicken scratch. His hand clenches, the paper giving way under his fingers. He inhales.

“Did Sister Leliana mention anything else?”

“No, Commander, just to meet her at your earliest convenience.”

Cullen nods, dismissing the agent. He takes one look at the words before him and knows he isn’t going to be able to focus on anything else for a long time.

He finds Leliana on the outskirts, rather than in the eye of the storm, at the edge of the broken bridge. She’s crouched, looking at a symbol in the stonework that Cullen’s never seen before.

“Cullen,” she says, greeting him before he’s even come to a stop. “We need to secure the Fortress.”

“All but done. Knight-Captain Rylen should be setting up the command tent now.”

Leliana nods. Cullen is waiting for her to say something, but what else is there? She gazes out over the Abyssal Rift, stuck on some far distant horizon.

“This is unprecedented. What do we do, Cullen? How can we trust in the Maker when he pulls the Inquisitor into the Fade itself?” 

“Trust in the Maker,” Cullen says. “You were Left Hand of the Divine. Cassandra would say the same.”  
  
“You once believed in something. You left the Order because it was too rigid, abused the Canticles in order to justify their actions. It was all you’d ever known, Cullen. yet you still had the courage to leave.”

“It took me a very long time.”

“And the lyrium is still addictive,” Leliana says, and it’s not a question, the tone of her voice just slightly off, as if they’re not really talking about lyrium at all.

It is a testament, to their time working together that Leliana knows this without him having to tell her; as is the way in which she replies. They are but two sides of the same coin.

Cullen doesn’t have an answer.

The silence is deafening.

“Commander, Seneschal.” Comes a voice from behind them, and they turn to see Rylen. “The Fortress is secure.”

He can see the moment she switches from _Leliana_ to _Spymaster_ and thinks that maybe it’s not so dissimilar from _Cullen_ to _Commander._

Cullen isn’t there when they return, doesn’t witness them fall from the sky or hear the Inquisitor’s accusations against the Grey Wardens. He’s in the command tent, alone, pouring over a map of the region, even though he knows it’s futile. He hears a commotion outside, the ring of metal - the guards, surely - and then the tent flaps burst open.

“Cullen,” Dorian rasps, breathless, gasping for air.

It’s clear Dorian has gone a round or two with some monster. There’s black ichor staining the front of his robes, drenched in who knows what. His hair is disheveled, unlike anything Cullen’s ever seen before, and there’s a distinct lack of mage staff on his person. There’s a cut above his eye, slicing the thick hair of Dorian’s brow in two. It’ll scar. Leaps and bounds from the usual handsome, commanding presence of Dorian, heir to House Pavus, and the future Lord Asariel.

And yet to Cullen, Dorian’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

Cullen’s hunched over the table, frozen and unable to move, unable to breath. _Dorian’s alive_ and it’s like the sky splitting open with rain after months of drought. It’s only been - Maker, it’s only been a handful of hours since they disappeared over the cliff. It’s felt like an entire lifetime. Cullen’s not - he’s far from being that person who believes in love at first sight - but this feeling, of fresh water against the dry grass, of a sudden realisation that _he is in love with Dorian_.

He is in love with Dorian, and everything makes sense. A flipped switch, locked into place inside his chest that he thought long gone along with Solona.

(Solona, who he could really only ever admire from afar. He remembers her Harrowing with alarming vividness, like most things from the Circle Tower. The way her hair caught the light, burning bright gold under the flicker of candles in the Chamber. His sword a heavy weight on his hip.

Uldred’s projection of her is a pale imitation. Could not quite get the twist of her lips around his name right, as if it was a word she had never learnt. It pains him more, that he is the last. She arrives and it’s something like all his nightmares come to life. Half delirious, tortured. She presses one soft, sweet kiss to his parched lips and whispers that they would be impossible, and his heart breaks with the truth of it.

It is not a feeling he thought would repeat.)

He’s in love with Dorian, and he remembers that their last conversation was a fight. A fight that was not unfounded; a fight that left them both raw and Cullen aching to make up for it.

He’s in love with Dorian, and he’s paralysed.

Dorian takes a step forward, and the space between them is suddenly a yawning chasm that Cullen doesn’t know how to cross.

“Dorian,” Cullen’s mouth finally catches up. “Thank the Maker you’re alive.”

Cullen moves around the table, Dorian moves further in the tent, the flap closing behind him. Cullen’s at a loss on what to do. He wants to reach out, so badly it’s a sharp pain running through him, to wrap Dorian into his arms and never let him go.

But he can’t - he can’t because he’s the _Commander_ and Dorian’s the _heir to two powerful Altus houses_ , and that means too _fucking_ much for Cullen to just throw it aside.

They’re across from each other now. Cullen crosses his arms behind him, falling into military rest lest he really does reach out. He wants to ask what happened, how Dorian’s standing in front of him whole, if not unscathed. He means to ask, opens up his mouth and -

“The Inquisitor?” Andraste _damn_ his duty. “Is she- “

“Alive? Remarkably so.” The broken laugh Dorian gives causes gooseflesh to flash over Cullen’s skin, the bitter edge to it turning over in Cullen’s stomach.

Asking after Hawke and Stroud would be the next logical thing, but all things considered, Cullen is going to leave any mention of the Champion well enough alone. 

Cullen would be a fool not to still feel the tension that yet lingers between them. So evident in the way that Dorian won’t really meet his eye or deflects even the question of his well-being.

Dorian shifts, and Cullen can’t help but note the way he’s favouring his left leg, “We should go. Aeryn’s ready to start a rampage, we can talk later.”

Cullen doesn’t even _know_ what that means, but nods his head, says, “Lead on,” like it doesn’t have a million and one interpretations in the wake of this untimely revelation.

Later, Cullen will find out that Hawke sacrificed himself so the others could return. The dull ache of grief washes over him. Varric is wrecked, when he finds him in the Herald’s Rest. Cullen sits beside him, the both of them quiet, but the look Varric gives him is grateful, as if Cullen is the only one who really understands his silence. Perhaps, in a way, he is, as if whatever time they had with Hawke was some sacred, intangible bond. 

Cullen is grateful in a way he doesn’t know how to appreciate that Hawke never sought him out, that they never really talked, this time around. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, or so they say.

Later, Cullen will not get a chance to speak to Dorian, and somehow that hurts worse.

**X.  
**The day had begun with torrential rain, so maybe that’s why Cullen finds Dorian lounging at his desk. It’s no secret that Leliana’s ravens are _not_ hospitable in this weather.

Cullen wonders when they became such friends - recent events considered - that Dorian is comfortable enough to sprawl in Cullen’s own chair, legs thrown up on the desk without a care for the paperwork he’s knocked off.

(Somewhere in between the late-afternoon games of chess and even later conversations that spill too many emotions over the stone walls he’s built around himself; somewhere in between his overheard confessional to that fight before Adamant; somewhere in between the heart-stopping fear that Dorian wasn’t coming back and the burning intensity of when he did.)

They haven’t talked about the fight. Cullen is both grateful and uncertain. Wouldn’t be sure of what to say, not with Hawke gone, not with the way Dorian’s so at ease behind his desk like he belongs there. Some distant part of him acknowledges that it’s not healthy, leaving _that_ alone, but that’s a bridge he doesn’t want to cross.

“Cullen!” Dorian swings his legs off the desk. “Finally!”

Cullen raises an eyebrow, voice amused, “Finally?”  
  
“Finally! We’ve barely seen each other.”

 _That_ causes heat to pool in Cullen’s stomach, the unhesitant statement that Dorian still considers him a friend to seek out, that they haven’t completely burned this particular bridge.

Cullen settles, leaning on the edge of his desk where Dorian’s feet have kicked off the latest of Rylen’s reports. He looks out the window, the rain falling in steady cascade. Dorian huffs, and Cullen’s attention is drawn back to him.

“There’s next to nothing in the library on early Tevinter history.”

“How disappointing,” Cullen teases. “It’s almost like we aren’t in Tevinter.”

Dorian laughs, head thrown back, and by gods has Cullen missed the sound, missed this. Cullen throws a sharp grin at him.

“There’s some research I want to do on the Fade.” Dorian explains, causing the blood in Cullen’s veins to run cold at the reminder.

It seems have the same effect on Dorian; he shifts, and Cullen can see the moment his walls come up.

“Dorian…” Cullen trails off, softly, not sure what to say.

Dorian looks at him. His grey eyes flicker over Cullen’s face, searching for what Cullen doesn’t know. Not sure if he wants to be confronted by the haunted look behind those grey eyes.

“Funnily enough, I just had this same conversation with our dear Inquisitor,” Dorian’s tone is carefully candid, and Cullen can tell that there’s nothing funny about it at all.

“Aeryn is my best friend, but Cullen, you… you are something inexplicable.”

Cullen blinks, not quite comprehending what the admission means. Doesn’t understand the gravity of Dorian speaking _that_ into the universe, not with his history, not with Cullen’s history, not with _their_ history.

“Falling into the chasm, I thought we were all done for, I said to Aeryn –” Dorian’s voice breaks, choked laugh escaping up from his throat. “I said to Aeryn I didn’t know if I could forgive her.”

“Forgive her for what?”

“The thought of not coming back,” Dorian admits, in a hushed whisper, eyes skimming over Cullen’s face to the downpour outside. “To you.”

It’s too much. Cullen can’t think straight. Overwhelmed. It’s like the earth shifts slightly, off its axis and the floor underneath his feet is suddenly unsteady. Like all his carefully built walls are crumbling like sand through his fingers, too fast and too hard to catch.

Dorian is still looking outside, and Cullen’s looking at him. The crown of his brow bone, the crest and slope of his nose in profile, the valley between the curve of his lips. His hand clenches with the burning desire to touch, to understand that topology intimately. 

His breath stutters in his throat, not sure what to say, not sure what would be a welcome response to Dorian’s quiet confession.

“Dorian, I –” He falls silent at the miniscule shake of Dorian’s head. The thought comes unbidden; perhaps Cullen is not alone in this hesitance; that this thing between them scares Dorian just as much as Cullen.

Thinks maybe that’s why Dorian’s eyes haven’t strayed from the window and the rain outside, as if looking at Cullen would make it seem more real.

He suddenly remembers the entire reason _why_ he wanted to see Dorian. The commission he made of Harrit. It’s sitting in a drawstring pouch, right by Dorian’s elbow. He moves, breaking the stillness that’s settled between them. Dorian starts as Cullen’s fingers brush against his skin, so gently, as he grabs the pouch.

Cullen fumbles, “Here.”

He passes over the pouch. Dorian appraises it with a critical eye.

“What’s this? A gift?”

Cullen shrugs, sheepish. Dorian unties the black cord, reaches a steady hand inside. A raised eyebrow. Dorian withdraws, in his hand, Cullen’s heart beating relentlessly.

It’s a staff blade. A magnificent, finely crafted staff blade. It’s a little longer than usual, half a metre of gleaming iron tapered into a deadly point. It’s free of embellishments, save for a column of three lightning-cracked lazurite stones, starting at the base and each smaller than the next. Sharp teeth run along one side, the other a smooth but sharp knife’s edge. It’s a peculiar, unusual artifact not seen this far South.

“This is a staff blade. A masterwork staff blade.”

It’s not a question, but Cullen can’t help himself, “It’s specifically for close combat.”

Dorian remains silent, calculating gaze trained on the blade as he turns it over. Cullen flushes.

“It’s - ah, that is - I noticed you training. That day with Lavellan. You’ve a varied style, but tend to favour close quarters over long range,” Cullen brushes a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. I assumed – just – considering you lost your staff in the Fade.”

“Don’t apologise. I’m rather touched, actually.”

Cullen gives a nervous chuckle, “The Inquisitor mentioned that you had lost your talisman. I know I couldn’t retrieve that, I – I hope this conveys the same amount of respect.”

Dorian face softens into something Cullen desperately wants to call fondness. The rain continues to pour.

Dorian doesn’t mention the sold pendant, the one that Cullen knows is his birthright. Knows what that kind of symbolism would’ve meant, knows what it would’ve been interpreted as; hates that it’s once again his own adherence that he can’t implicate the Inquisition when he so badly wants to.

What Cullen doesn’t say is that it’s an apology. An apology for not telling Dorian about Hawke, when he could have. An apology for not saying anything sooner about the godsforsaken lyrium withdrawals. An apology for being hamstrung by his position. 

An apology for not knowing how to love him in a way Dorian deserves.

An apology for loving him anyways.

**XI.  
** _“Commander!”_

Cullen drops on instinct, underneath the blade that swings right where his throat would’ve been. He twists, blocking the next strike. The _thing_ made of red lyrium and flesh makes revulsion turn in his gut like something horrid. It’s with great pleasure that Cullen plunges his sword through it.

Around him, Inquisition soldiers are driving back and being overwhelmed by red templars in equal measure. It feels like Adamant again. The same parade of their forces on campaign, this time accompanied by the joint forces of Thedas.

It only took the Inquisitor manipulating the Court of Orlais and falling into the Fade for them to see reason. Only. Josephine, who is a pillar of strength amongst the war council in that way that’s often overlooked, has never been more stressed. The thought of failing her – of failing everyone – is a dull and constant ache.

There’s a relentless beating at the back of his skull, the likes of which he’s only felt echoes of. Blue lyrium calls; red lyrium _sings._ His bones ache with every swing of his sword, every block of his shield sending sharp spikes of pain up his arm and across his shoulders. Water sloshes over his feet. He can feel the coolness through the leather of his boots like a welcome relief.

“Commander!” He hears again, but this time it’s from the arresting voice of the Inquisitor. He spins to see her fade-step away from a Grey Warden.

“Inquisitor,” He returns as she appears by his side. “Nice of you to join us.”

She’s not without her own injuries, Cullen notices. Her armour is torn at the shoulder, blood cloying, but Cullen can see unbroken skin and wonders who she let close enough to land a blow easily healed.

He looks around, eyes tracking for the rest of her vanguard (not admitting who he’s really looking for, who now has a permanent place by the Inquisitor’s side on any mission they undertake) hard to see through the spray of water. Trevelyan makes a noise, and Cullen swings his gaze back to her. There’s a curious, half-amused look on her face.

“What?” Cullen asks, suddenly self-conscious.

She smiles, tips her head forward, voice light, “He’s over there.”

Cullen, for a split second, feels ice down his spine. Doesn’t bother with acknowledging that Trevelyan _knows,_ because in the next moment he sees Dorian, his staff-blade piercing through the chest of the Grey Warden she just escaped from.

He’s reminded of Adamant. Of lightning spilling from Dorian’s fingertips. He’s reminded of that time in the training yard. Of the way his staff was but an extension of his arm. Cullen’s captivated – as he so often is – and the distraction is just enough for him to miss Trevelyan move away and the templar closer.

He has no warning – other than the panicked look on Dorian’s face, stark even from across the clearing.

Searing hot pain ratchets up his side. Head spinning, crashing to his knees. Behind him Cullen hears the rattling breath of a Red Templar.

And then the lyrium _burns._

His hand presses weakly against his side, blood seeping through his fingers. The Shadow moves in front of him. It’s arms drag point-down digging a bloody trail in the earth. His every nerve is on fire, the drag of lyrium in his veins blazing tenfold. Cullen grasps for his sword blindly through the pain, fingers leaving a bloody smear over the crossguard before clinging to the pommel. He clutches the sword with two hands to stick it point down in the gravel, using it to lever himself up from his knees.

Just as he gets to his feet, Cullen feels the familiar wash of Dorian’s winter-cold, electric magic over his skin.

Time stops in golden-cracked light.

(Cullen doesn’t realise it then – doesn’t realise it until he’s ensconced back in his office at Skyhold, three weeks later, healing, and trying not think about how close death was – but it’s the first time he’s experienced Dorian’s powers firsthand. Growing up in the Order, Cullen was taught that necromancy was taboo alongside blood magic, and it didn’t help that the Imperium disagreed. Cassandra and Solas have both voiced their disapproval, but watching him Cullen has to ask why. The way Dorian wields it is like nothing else, as if easier than breathing, seems like anything but taboo.

It makes him wonder who could cast Dorian aside; this intelligent, powerful man who _reversed_ time to save them all from a decaying future. Who has unlimited potential, who has so many aspirations for the betterment of Tevinter that it makes Cullen’s head spin, for who could be so kind when they’ve endured so much in the name of radical nationalism. Yet here Dorian is, an outcast from his home and the black sheep of the Inquisition, and still so fucking determined to see it all through.)

The air fragments in pieces in front of his face, splintering into a hazy purple-blue-gold distortion.

Dorian appears between one blink and the next.

Cullen can’t move.

Dorian’s moving too fast.

Blood drips sluggishly from his side.

The staff blade glints in the sun as Dorian swings it around. Lightning fractures along the edge, as Dorian slashes the Shadow from head to foot.

Time speeds forward, the gold disappearing as the world shifts back into place.

Cullen’s hand jerks forward, sword swaying dangerously in his loose grasp. Dorian pivots on his heel, barrier glistening in the air behind him as the Shadow staggers back, not dead but defeated.

“ _Cullen –”_ Dorian’s voice is panicked, choked.

Cullen sways, head hazy and numb with pain. His sword is a heavy weight in his hand. He’d drop it if it wasn’t ingrained in him to not.

“Cullen,” Dorian says his name again, and it’s an effort to look at him. “You need a potion.”

Cullen’s mind instantly reels, he can’t take lyrium, he _can’t,_ not when it’s already burning through his blood.

Dorian fishes one out, and only as he places it in Cullen’s hand does he realise it’s a healing potion, soothing green, and not the vibrant blue of lyrium. Cullen drinks it without a word, grimacing at the acrid taste. He can already feel it working; the blood clotting. He’ll need stitches, but for now the bandage Dorian hands him will have to do.

In a flash of light, the barrier fizzles. The Shadow twists, arms piercing the barrier and barely missing Dorian. Cullen brings his sword up in a move so automatic he doesn’t have to think about it.

The draw of the red lyrium fades as they move in alarming synchronicity. Dorian ducks as Cullen swings his sword in the perfect sideswipe, blade severing the thing’s head from it’s neck.

Cullen’s chest is heaving, hard to breath in the five-minute span it’s been since the Shadow pierced his side and Dorian stopped time.

Trevelyan and the rest of her vanguard have moved upwards almost out of sight.

Dorian turns to him, and something unspoken passes between them. A promise to try not die in this water-soaked land teeming with Red Templars. Cullen nods once, a short sharp acknowledgement, and Dorian walks off to rejoin the Inquisitor.

He loses them behind the towering wolf statues, attention drawn by one of his lieutenants. He and his soldiers make short work of the corpses, stripping them for valuables before piling them together. The pyre burns with the sharp sizzle of lyrium. It takes Cullen every effort to keep from vomiting from the smell, something like burnt flesh tinged with bitter acid.

Afterwards, Cullen returns to the main camp to find it in chaos.

Early reports from Leliana say that Corypheus resurrected himself from the body of an infected Warden; the Inquisitor and her vanguard forced into the Temple of Mythal to escape the dragon.

And then nothing.

 _Nothing_.

(Once again, Cullen will later learn of events from a detailed report by the Inquisitor’s own hand.

The Hall of Shrines and the rituals needed to pass through the temple out of conflict with the Venatori, who fill the halls of the underground Crypt. The Chamber, in which the Inquisitor allies with the sentinel Abelas and Morrigan’s betrayal.

The fight with Calpurnia, determined to become Corypheus’ Vessel in some twisted sense of loyalty that Cullen doesn’t want to analyse.

The Well of Sorrows, holding all the answers of history. Abelas and Morrigan’s argument. The Inquisitor’s decisions.

Morrigan drinks from the Well. Cullen doesn’t even want to think about the consequences of that. The stray thought of _what pride had wrought_ floats through his head, as if it was pride that had driven Corypheus to this. As if it isn’t greed or a lust for knowledge that drives Morrigan’s decision in drinking from the Well. As if it wasn’t greed, as if they weren’t one and the same.

Some part of him is glad that Dorian voiced his disapproval, so he says once he recounts his own version of events to Cullen over chess, many weeks later.)

By the time Leliana’s agents have breached the Temple, only to find the Well destroyed, as is the Eluvian the Inquisitor escaped via, days have passed.

It takes weeks to return to Skyhold from the Emerald Graves. By the end of it, Josephine and Leliana are beside themselves. Cullen has heard no less than six times what Jose is going to do to Trevelyan for making her endure this rain-soaked and muddy trek back. Leliana, on the other hand, is furious with her lack of knowledge, a feeling that doesn’t abate until they’ve reached Skyhold and she’s interrogated the vanguard for what seems like the entire afternoon.

Cullen is sent from the surgeon’s tent with ten stitches up his side and stern instructions not to pull them, least he face Andraste’s wrath.

**XII.  
**He invites Dorian to Honnleath on a whim. There is some inexplicable urge hidden underneath his ribcage that makes him want to show Dorian the lake. The lake, where he learnt how to swim, how to fish. The lake, on the pier where he had his first kiss.

They arrive with the sun directly overhead, a flush of warmth opposed to the icy cold of Skyhold. He pulls out from their saddlebags a hearty lunch. A blanket appears from somewhere, spread out on the grass, and they sit so close that their knees touch, a bright spark-point of heat between them.

“What was it like, growing up here?” Dorian asks, after they’ve finished.

“Quiet,” Cullen replies. “Quiet, but in a way that meant my whole family were close. We lived in each other’s pockets. The lake was a way for me to get away from that, to be on my own for a couple of hours.”

It’s a bit absurd, Cullen thinks, to have such magnetism between two people in such short of time. It’s equally absurd that this is the first time Cullen’s mentioned anything of his childhood. Sure, there’s been an offhanded comment about Mia and her hatred for his inability to send letters, but nothing like this. Cullen talks for what feels like hours, about how much he misses his siblings, the farm, life without endless paperwork. Mia, who is still his biggest supporter – who he told about stopping lyrium before anyone else. Branson, who has a child now, how he feels like he’s failed as an uncle. Rosalie, who deserves all of Thedas and then some. How it’s just the four of them, after the Blight. Dorian looks at him with sad eyes, and Cullen can read the sympathy there. 

The sun is setting, when Cullen withdraws the coin from his pocket, flicking it across his knuckles as Dorian’s gaze turns thoughtful.

“My brother gave this to me, the day I left to join the Templars,” Cullen says. “The only thing I took with me from Ferelden.”

“How old were you?”  
  
“Thirteen.”

“That was a long time ago,” Dorian says, not unkindly; they’re the same age, and if it feels like a lifetime ago that’s because it was.

“And it has survived.”

“A good luck charm.”

“Yes.” Cullen says, reaching a hand out to Dorian for him to take it. “It would give me comfort, knowing you had it.”

The look on Dorian face is unreadable, “Cullen, I couldn’t.”

“Humour me.”

Dorian takes the coin, turning it over. He handles it with a gentle reverence that has Cullen’s breath catching in his throat.

“You gave me the staff blade,” Dorian says, a handful of minutes later, pressing the coin back into Cullen’s palm. “That is luck enough for me.”

Cullen accepts it; Dorian taking the coin is ultimately irrelevant, and he’s already perhaps the luckiest person Cullen knows. Cullen folds his hand over the coin, tucking it back away. Dorian walks to the end of the pier, looking out over the water. He turns back, framed by the soft purple sunset, slow halcyon rush of summer warming his skin. Cullen is breathless.

“Cullen, I do believe you owe me a dance,” Dorian says, voice teasing.

“What? On this old thing? We’ll fall in.”  
  
“I daresay it’ll be worth the risk.”  
  
Cullen smiles at that. He knows it must be a soft, unguarded thing at the way Dorian returns it.

“Well, then,” Cullen takes a step forward, dipping into a smooth bow, hand outstretched. “May I have this dance, my lord Pavus?”

Dorian slips his arm around Cullen’s shoulder, bright laugh leaving his lips upon hearing Cullen twist his own words back at him. They’re barely a hairsbreadth apart, and Cullen has never longed to be closer. He can feel Dorian’s fingers tangle with the hair and the nape of his neck. His hand against Dorian’s hip burns, almost. There’s no music, of course, but they don’t need it. Cullen is so tempted, beyond words, to tilt his chin upwards and catch Dorian’s lips with his own. It would be so easy; the barest slant of his mouth, gentle nip of his teeth, pictures the way Dorian's breath would hitch and they'd both come undone. 

_It would be so easy._

He doesn’t.

(There is still too much hurt lingering between them from before Adamant. It lingers in that infinitesimal way that gut-punches do; aching long after the fact. Neither of them has apologised for that fight. Cullen’s starting to think that they never will, that it’ll just be one of those things pushed aside. It’s only _after_ Adamant, after Dorian had returned and had all but skidded into the command tent, that Cullen think’s things will be okay. The staff blade was a gesture of forgiveness; not of forgetting. The staff blade has already saved him once, in the Emerald Graves. Cullen tells himself that should be enough.)

Dorian doesn’t make a move either, just twines his fingers through Cullen’s curls, nails light against his scalp, and somehow in the quiet of the setting sun, that is more intimate than any kiss they could share.

Time falls away as they sway there, together, at the edge of the lake.

**XIII.  
**Cullen has one knee pressed into stone, head bent underneath the immortal gaze of Andraste. His hands are clasped tightly together, to the point that his knuckles ache with the pressure. He’s convinced that physical, visceral pain is the only thing that can make this moment seem real. They are about to send the Inquisitor and the vanguard of her choosing to face Corypheus.

There is no doubt within his mind that Dorian will be in that party. There is no way he wouldn’t be. Dorian is too skilled a mage, too valuable a solider for Trevelyan to leave him behind. Not when he can wield lightning as easy as breathing or manipulate the flow of time as if it was nothing. Cullen knows Dorian will be in that vanguard, just as he knows Sera will be. He is not sure if it’d be a blessing or a curse for the Inquisitor, to have her lover beside her in this fight for survival.

Cullen knows the Canticle of Trials like the back of his hand. Drilled into him along with sword training in the Order. It’s the first one to come to mind.

“I cannot see the path. Perhaps there is only abyss. Trembling, I step forward.” Cullen’s voice catches, as it always does here. “In darkness enveloped.”

It’s incredibly fitting. Had anyone, even Andraste herself, told Cullen a year ago that he’d be here, leading the force of the _Inquisition,_ he wouldn’t have believed it. He still can’t believe Cassandra came to him, asking for his skill. It was a boon – there is no other way Cullen could see it, not now. Working with the Left and Right Hands of the Devine has been a privilege Cullen never really fathomed the weight of, until now. Nor Josephine, who is a master of the Great Game and a skilled diplomat in her own right. The four of them shaped the Inquisition into what it is today from its inception. It was a risk, like walking in darkness, but it was one well worth it.

“Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide.” He continues, nails digging in the soft flesh of his hand. “I shall not be left to wander –”

Sudden footsteps behind him herald an abrupt end.

“A prayer, Commander?” Dorian asks, and Maker, if it had been anyone else Cullen would’ve brushed it off and left.

Cullen doesn’t turn his head, instead shifting his weight and rising. He looks up at the carved face of Andraste, who stares back limitlessly, as only a divine statue can. Cullen feels the weight of the last year, if not his whole life, settle on his shoulders.

He faces Dorian, catching those grey eyes as he says, “For those I have lost. For those I am afraid to lose.”

“You’re afraid?”

“Of course I am, Dorian. How could I not?”

Cullen falters under the weight of Dorian’s gaze. The same cool grey as so many moons ago, in the Chantry at Haven that said with complete certainty _you’re thinking like a blood mage!_ His brain short-circuits with the same faulting, failing, falling sensation.

It says enough to him, that Dorian remains silent.

“I almost lost you once, Dorian.” Cullen says, mind going to that night on the battlements and their fight and Dorian’s trip to the Fade and a red templar in the water of the Emerald Graves.

Dorian curls his fingers around Cullen’s wrist to pull him into his arms, a hand going to back of his neck and guiding his head to Dorian’s shoulder.

“I can’t promise you I’ll live,” Dorian begins, hushed. “But I’ll do the most that I can to come back.”

There is no vocal confirmation of this thing between them, just an intrinsic understanding that they have reach this point of no return. Like the brief moment of time between the catching spark and the first lick of fire.

“Andraste preserve me,” Cullen breathes, nose pressed to Dorian’s cheekbone. “I must send you to him."

“Cullen, if I –”

“Don’t. Just come back.”

“Okay.” Cullen can feel a hand run up and down his spine, soothing. “Okay.”

Cullen can hear the wetness in Dorian’s voice, and he doesn’t know whether that makes this goodbye harder.

Two days later, they march.

The Valley of Sacred Ashes exists as it has since the Conclave; outside of time, suspended and preserved by red lyrium. It makes his skin crawl. Beside him, Cassandra lets out a pained noise, and Cullen can’t help but wonder how she or Leliana must feel, coming back to this place of death and ruination.

Red lyrium cracks over the sky in wake of Corypheus’ dragon. Morrigan’s screech rents the air, and for a brief moment Cullen absurdly thinks _like mother like daughter_. They tumble through the sky. Cullen, like the rest of the Inquisition, is frozen at the sight. His hand grips the pommel of his sword with the cold strength of fear.

A year has passed since that night in Haven. When the world seemed to end. Or perhaps, the start. The weight of his armour is heavy; physically, mentally, in ways he never thought. The Inquisition has taught him many things. Not just about Thedas, who has shown her true colours across Orlais and Fereldan both, but himself as well. The injury from the Emerald Graves pangs with phantom pain, like there’s still red lyrium infused in the cut, even though Cullen knows first-hand that it was all flushed out. _Perseverance_ echoes in his mind, sounding not at all unlike Cassandra.

A year ago he’d just began weaning himself off of lyrium. There are still good days and bad days, but nothing like those early days, where all he could do was watch his hands shake. Cullen, oddly retrospective, can’t help but feel proud of himself.

Surely, if anything, it was the night he met Dorian. A year of this thing between them, and yet it’s something Cullen could never regret.

The Valley is static. Unmoving and eerie, causing his skin to break out in gooseflesh.

The earth shakes, tearing, rising. The dragon screams. What's left of the Breach flares green as the ruins of the Valley climb towards it.

The jewels of his staff blade catch the light, a bright flare of lazurite blue, and that is the last Cullen sees of Dorian for a long time.

**XIV.  
**In the aftermath that follows, Cullen barely has time to himself, let enough a spare moment to check on Dorian. Not that he needs to. Dorian has proven more than capable in handling himself, but something inside Cullen, twisted and clinging inside his ribcage, can’t help but remember that the last time he saw Dorian the earth was splitting underneath him.

Josephine is in the middle of planning a ball, which is more than enough for Cullen to avoid her office, the war room, and the entire Great Hall altogether. That afternoon finds Cullen seeking out Dorian, who is, surprisingly, already in the garden at their chess set.

“Dorian,” he says, sitting down. “I didn’t think you’d be here.”  
  
Dorian’s grey eyes spark, a hand curling underneath his chin, the movement coy, “I find myself lacking in riveting chess matches against certain Inquisition soldiers.”

“Riveting? Are you sure that’s the right word for losing?” Cullen teases back, scar tugging at his lip as he smiles. He doesn’t miss the way Dorian’s eyes fall to take the movement in.

Dorian laughs. The sound genuine and like sunshine to Cullen after a day full of rain. 

“I’m confident I’ll beat you one day, my dear Commander.” 

Cullen settles further into the chair. He is eager, to fall back into this routine, if only so he can make sure Dorian is okay, after everything they’ve been through.

Hours must pass. The afternoon sun is golden and warm against his skin, the chess board a bright flare of marble. Dorian across from him resplendent. The rest of the world seems to fall away, all his worries of the future forgotten. Why think about what happens next when he can focus on _now._

His mind strays, half focused on the game, half focused on the man in front of him. Cullen never expected anyone like Dorian, who is formidable and cunning and a breath of fresh air all rolled into one. That much has become more than obvious in the last year. Unparalleled necromantic skills that Cullen can’t comprehend, coupled with a biting silver tongue. Not to mention the charm that drew Cullen to him in the first place.

Cullen doesn’t want to think maybe they have a chance now, that the end of all Thedas has come and passed. This thing, stirring between them like an oncoming storm, _aches_. He doesn’t want to think about what the Inquisition will do next, doesn’t want to think about Dorian’s own plans to return to Tevinter by Wintersend.

The chess; the duel; the lyrium; the staff blade; the dance; it all makes hope bloom inside his chest. The dissonance between them and their positions with and without the Inquisition; the infinitesimal distance between them and what they’ve come to mean to each other.

Cullen wants to believe they have a chance at love, despite everything telling him no.

Dorian’s hand stills as he moves a piece, the knight held between two fingers. He looks up, silverite eyes catching Cullen’s own honey-coloured ones. There’s something there that Cullen can’t quiet catch, something indescribable and _magic_.  
  
“Cullen, please,” Dorian says, voice low, and Cullen flashes back to a war tent at the edge of Adamant Fortress and a sprawling map and his heart beating a cacophony against his rib cage at Dorian’s broken rasp. “This is agonising.”

Those five words are enough for his resolve to break.

His thigh presses painfully into the table. Chess pieces fall to the floor as Cullen reaches over. His hand cups Dorian’s jaw, holding him like spun glass, ever so gently. A moment passes. A heartbeat between that and the next. This, like a dance around the flames, embers falling and catching fire to the sharp intake of Dorian’s breath.

The world tilts on its axis, shattering as Cullen closes the distance between them, realigning at the first tentative kiss he presses to Dorian’s lips.

It’s like taking a drink of water after a drought, like Cullen didn’t realise he was starving until his very first bite. The smell of Dorian’s cologne fills his nose, lavender and cinnamon and nutmeg. The heated slide of his mouth like coming home. Dorian’s fingers tangle into Cullen’s curls, tugging him closer. They break apart, the chess table rocking precariously between them. Dorian’s hands at the base of his neck, fingers resting at the curve of his skull. Temple to temple, breathing the same air. Cullen imagines saying something to break the silence. Something like _I think I’ve loved you since the moment we met_ ; or more simply, _Dorian._

Instead, Dorian pulls him in again, and Cullen goes easily under the waves.

**Author's Note:**

> i need y'all to know that the first ever line i wrote (probably like, over a year and a half ago by now) was 'the world tilts on its axis...' without knowing what the story would be and of course i go and put it at the fucking end. 
> 
> obviously there's some liberties with the timeline; the fact that the inquisitor sided with the templars yet i still (barely) included the bit about going back in time at redcliffe - i just need dorian to be a successful nerd ok. 
> 
> any typos are mine no beta we die like men.
> 
> title and the entire thing was inspired by [dust to dust ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yJbmXvBJhCs)by the civil wars.  
> find me on tumblr [@volantium](https://volantium.tumblr.com).


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